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"You might have reason to, Monsieur," retorted the girl demurely. "But you see it’s Djack who is convalescing, not you." She had become accustomed to the ceaseless banter of Burley’s two comrades a banter entirely American, and which at first she was unable to understand. But now all things American, including accent and odd, perverted humour, had become very dear to her.
"Aw, stick around with the push!" remonstrated Kid Glenn thickly, impaling another potato upon his fork and gesticulating with it. Smith gazed with surfeited but hopeless envy upon Burley’s magnificent work with knife and fork, saw him crack a seventh bottle of Bordeaux, watched him empty the first goblet.
Sainte Lesse as yet knew nothing personally of the American mule or of Burley. Sainte Lesse heard both before it beheld either Burley’s loud, careless, swaggering voice above the hee-haw of his trampling herds: "All I ask for is human food, Smith not luxuries just food! and that of the commonest kind."
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